


Last Light

by SpitfireRose



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: And I don't mean Hammerhead, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Depression, Game Spoilers, Prompto's in a bad place, Straight up on the Pain Train, There will be comfort promise, Touch-Starved, World of Ruin, that 'train' part was unintentional I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 15:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11900961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpitfireRose/pseuds/SpitfireRose
Summary: Prompto can't keep going on like this.





	Last Light

**Author's Note:**

> Tissues are not a requirement, but recommended. Inspiration can be found once again by kaciart on tumblr, over here at http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/164419126658

_“I’m gonna make this world a better place. You with me?”_

_“Uh-huh. Ever at your side.”_

Prompto had really, truly, wanted to believe that more than _anything_.

It was stupid, so naive to even entertain the notion that things could ever go back to normal. That things would get better, even.

 _Six_ , all Prompto had wanted was a moment to _breathe_ again. To put aside the hellish torment he had miraculously endured, and just _breathe_ with relief that it was finally over _._ The guys--the loves of his life--, had come to rescue _him,_ despite Ardyn’s devilish deceit that they’d ditched him at the discovery of his true identity and origins. Prompto had wanted nothing more than to be held by them all at once, to sleep peacefully in the sanctuary of their validating attentions and warm affections. They were reunited once again, determined more than ever to never be torn apart, to forever remain side-by-side no matter the inevitable upcoming dangers. It would all be _okay_ now _,_ just _breathe._

But that breath was cut too short, a sharp gasp for nonexistent air before being plunged back into cold, cruel reality with hardly time for the respite he so desperately needed.

The earnest promises of a better world were stolen away by destiny’s ruthless hand. _His_ world, _his_ Noctis, _gone._ Everything had fallen into a severe understatement of the only word to describe it.

_Shit._

Darkness cursed the land, bringing forth outbreaks of daemons overtaking nearly all of Eos, dimly lit cities snuffed out like flickering candles in a hurricane. Outposts overrun, citizens in a shrieking blind panic to run towards light like moths to a flame, as if chickatrices with their heads cut off.

Prompto remembers the bodies when they first came across the remnants of a civilization, the dark crimson stains of what used to be a family splattered against pavement.

Even now, a year later, he still doesn’t know if it’s lucky to find what passes for a corpse or not.

This one, whoever they used to be, was a Hunter. Alone, just like himself, and Prompto swallows past the lump in his throat as he pockets the dog tags. He wonders not for the first time if he can request Dave to make him a set, grim thoughts nosediving if Gladio and Ignis would even care enough to collect his when the time comes. They’ve all been up to their own tasks, Prompto _knows_ that, having places where they were needed most. Gladio, with his sister and only remaining family, putting his Shield skills to use in training promising recruits to patrol and gather supplies. Ignis, in his natural element, assisting in advising Lestallum’s rising intake of refugees and how best to keep one another safe and fed.

But Prompto doesn’t have a place to belong like they do, doesn’t have a role to fulfill, doesn’t really have a purpose.

It’s like nothing has changed, except there’s no Noctis around to tell him that that’s not true.

When he does get the rare text asking how they’re all holding up over at Hammerhead, he puts on a brave face and lies that he’s doing fine. Not to worry.

It really is like nothing has changed.

* * *

It’s been five hundred days. Almost seventy-two weeks. A little over a year.

Prompto denies he’s been keeping count when Cindy catches him scribbling yet another tick mark in the spiral notebook not tucked away fast enough. Cid grumbles that he’s been waiting far longer than that, but doesn’t specify what Prompto already knows of broken bonds and promises. They’re too much alike, and the old mechanic doesn’t hide his disappointment in what’s become of the metaphorical brothers.

Prompto would be impressed with himself that he’s managed to survive this long, but truthfully hasn’t been feeling much of anything. Not even when Cindy claps her hand on his shoulder, touch lingering as if to assure herself that the young man is there and real and in one piece before shoving an energy bar in his hands with an ultimatum that he’s going to eat that if he wants to go scouting again today. In another time, another life, he would have been thrilled and in awe at the physical contact from the greasemonkey goddess, but there’s nothing except an aching yearning in his heart for the hand to stay just a second longer.

Cindy’s had to patch him up more than the shambles of vehicles that’ve been towed in, and even in the marriage to her work, knows damn well that Prompto hasn’t been eating like he should. Takka’s still got plenty of canned goods rationed for themselves and the occasional straggler passing through, there’s no immediate worry of starving, but the gunner politely passes when offered under the claim he’s not hungry.

The last real meal he had was in Altissa, back when times were brighter and without a real concern in the world. He hasn’t slept since then, either, blacking out like the sun and genuinely surprised that he even wakes on the Garage’s workbench with a blanket draped over him. The caravan’s free to use, they all insist, but there’s too many memories in there that he _can't_.

There's not a ‘night’ where he isn't haunted by the past, anyway, snapping awake with chest heaving and body running cold. 

Prompto just nods as he always does, accepting the bar with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a hollow joke like some soulless machine.

Cindy isn’t laughing, and neither is he. 

* * *

To his credit, he’s improved at fighting on his own. Panic doesn’t course through his veins at the all-too-common crackling of daemons spawning from all sides, and though it’d be so easy to just up and run away without backup, Prompto stands his ground and _fights._

He’s got more cuts and bruises than freckles, has gambled his slim chances of vitality like a game that's gone on so long that he’s stopped caring if he loses. Prompto’s no fool with a deathwish though, he’s smart and clever and steers out of combat unless engaged or blindsided by his busy brain and punished with another scar to his back.

He’s accepted that one of these times, he’s just not going to make it back to Hammerhead. He’ll be like that lone Hunter, another fatality left to rot, that none will remember for all those they’ve already lost and still are. Life will go on, Gladio and Ignis will be disappointed with him, maybe, for the second they can afford at Cindy calling them to inform of his demise, and that’ll be the end of Prompto Argentum.

 _‘That’s not true.’_ The imaginary Noctis in his mind persists in that fierce, no nonsense tone when he so casually degrades himself. _‘They’d all miss you and you know it.’_

“Come back and tell me that yourself, buddy.” Prompto whispers to no one, weapon vanishing and materializing back into shaky hands. “ _Come back._ ”

* * *

He told himself he wouldn’t call. 

He just really, really needs to hear their voices one last time.

The three Iron Giants, he could handle. The Red bastard that popped up right after, he could manage. Getting swarmed by Hobgoblins taken advantage of him being tossed around like a ragdoll for the past hour when the behemoth fucker got lucky, he....he... _couldn’t_.

He did, at the price of his left leg getting seriously fucked up, Starshell only giving him a few precious seconds grace to limp the hell away from the temporarily blinded foes.

Maybe it’s good he’s been skipping out on rations, cramming himself between boulders that he doesn’t want to think if he’d been able to fit otherwise. The point is that he does, claustrophobia be damned, tucked so far in that they don’t see him, or find him not worth the trouble, Prompto doesn’t care which as they hiss and snarl in retreat to endless shadows.

It hurts to breathe, in both an impossibly tight space and with what few ribs are still intact.

He can’t see the wound on his leg, but can feel blood seeping out even without a hand pressed against it. It’s _bad. This_ is _bad._ He had lied about still having curatives as to assure Cindy he’d be alright out here, the truth that he ran out long ago. Why waste a potion on something that could just have a bandage slapped on, right? Yeah, like when Prompto had stumbled into the safety of Hammerhead the first month in, open injuries taking on a sickening sheen beneath the generator’s mass of light. He was sorry, sorry, he’d be okay just...just _don’t_ tell the guys, Cindy. _Please,_ he had begged and pleaded, more upset at them finding out than lying half-dead on a cot at the makeshift clinic _._

She hadn’t told, and he still doesn’t understand why.

Prompto had sworn he wouldn’t ever call them, but when he manages to fish his phone out of his pocket--heart shattering at the lock and home screens of the four of them--, he’s swiping before he can change his mind and ignores the blood on the cracked display. The Advisor’s always picked up on the first ring in the past, so maybe...maybe...

It defaults to an automatic voicemail, a woman’s voice coldly droning that the person he’s trying to reach is currently unavailable.

The tone beeps.

“H--Hey, Specs, guess who? It--It’s me, Prom--Prompto. Hope I’m not in--interrupting, know you’re a bu--busy guy and all, I just... _Just_. _Fuck_.” His voice cracks, and he prays it doesn’t sound that desperate, but Ignis will know like he knows everything. His bottom lip trembles, inhaling deeply and exhaling as if that’ll magically make him sound better. It only makes it worse, battered ribs squeezing his lungs and he bites down to keep from screaming. “I--I’m okay, I’m fine. Just, _Gods_ , just wanted to _he-hear--_ ”

Either the voicemail cuts off at the time limit, or he’s hung up on accident.

Prompto shouldn’t be calling, he really shouldn’t, but gods damn it all, turns out the coward’s more afraid of dying alone than he tricked himself into believing.

 _“_ Gla--Gladio, hey, it’s...it’s Prompto. Remember how you---you always grouched that I’d get myself killed doing stupid shit? Don’t be mad. It’s...” A half-laugh evolves into a choked sob. He sniffles, turning away from the device for a second to collect himself as much as he’s able. Not at all. “That’s not really funny anymore. I--I’ll be okay, you know me, all dramatics. I was really just...I called because...your voice...I really needed to hear you to yell at me one last time, hah. Haa, _ahhh_ , fuck. _Fuck_ , this hurts so _bad_ , I don’t think...think I’m _gonna_.... _don’t be mad._..”

He shuts his eyes, hanging up because he knows he’s going to cry and the big guy doesn’t deserve that.

Cindy. He has to call Cindy. His head’s all a fuzzy mess, thumb fumbling to tap her name.

 _“Prom, sugar, what’s the trouble?”_ Bless the Six that she answers right away, nothing but serious concern. It’s not the first time he’s called like this, after all.

“Ci--Cindy, _shit_. I--I don’t... _can’t_ make it back tonight.” It hits him then, realization that he hadn’t managed to tell them. _“_ If I’m not back tomorrow, you--you-- _please_ , the _guys_ , they _need_ to know I _lo--_ ”

The phone slips from his bloodied hand, accidentally selecting ‘end call’ in poor reflex to catch it before clattering on the rocky desert surface. He should have let the damn device fall because now everything really, really, hurts, and the cuts on his cheeks are starting to sting. There’s one way he knows to ease the pain, exhaustion tugging at heavy eyelids. If he sleeps, there’s a chance he’ll feel well enough to make the trek back to Hammerhead, evading daemons or die trying.

That’s the best case scenario, _if_ he wakes up. There’s no struggling to stay awake for long to think it over, immense pain dragging him under the kinder realm of unconsciousness.

* * *

_“Haa, ahhh, fuck. Fuck, this hurts so bad, I don’t think...think I’m gonna....don’t be mad...”_

Gladiolus Amicitia is fucking pissed. 

It’s an anger born from fear, of worry, of how unintentionally neglectful they’ve been, and all of that fury is directed at himself as the message is played over and over.

It was a half-hour ago. Prompto had called the both of them, had reached out in clear distress and desperation, and neither had answered. Too damn busy as always to have checked in, only having noticed they’d missed a call when Cindy had spammed both their phones to get to Hammerhead _right now_. It was a mistake to listen to the voicemails on the way down, lucky the roads are vacant for all the rage that consumes Gladio as the gas pedal practically melds to the floor.

Ignis is silent in the passenger’s seat, but he knows the blind man is shaking.

The brakes screech as they swerve into Hammerhead’s lot where Cindy’s the picture of anger, as she rightfully ought to be. There’s no time for formalities, no time to unleash the rant she’s had bottled away since they’d parted ways those five hundred days ago, feelings clear with frustrated tears in olive eyes.

“What direction did he head in?”

“He went--”

The phone rings in her gloved hand, and she’s never answered so fast. The gunner’s name dies on her lips as a much gruffer voice responds instead.

“ _I’ve found him.”_ Cor Leonis the Immortal, mentor and father figure, grunts in the speaker as if lifting something with device held between shoulder and ear.

Gladio snatches the phone from Cindy, offering an apologetic look that deep down isn’t entirely sorry as he demands he put Prompto on the line.

_“I can’t.”_

Two words, and Gladio about loses his mind, as if the earth has crumbled beneath him for how his heart freefalls like an impossible weight. Even Cindy lets out a pained gasp, head shaking slightly in disbelief, while Ignis is still so silent. 

“W--What? Why?” The Shield dares to ask, uncomfortably afraid for the answer he expects to hear.

“ _He’s unconscious, Gladio.”_ Is the deadpanned response that gets the intended scare as his legs almost fail to support him for the relief that sweeps over the trio.

Their location is given out, and Gladio summons his greatsword in a rush to head out, a dead sprint to the mountains in the east. Cindy watches him go, almost forgetting that the Advisor is there until he finally speaks up, inquiring where they tend to the injured. He wants-- _needs_ to be prepared for when they return with Prompto. It’s the least his foolish actions can do to even hope to atone. 

* * *

The area is swamped with Bombs like a minefield, angry flames ghosting around in a hypnotic trance, lighting the darkness with an eerie ember glow. Gladio stays low, cursing each and every single one of the easily excitable explosive enemies as he scans for the boulders Cor had made mention of. Seconds of evading the things is like an hour, a lifetime, keeping out of sight as he searches for where the two could be.

A flash of light gives them away, metal katana reflected by firelight just long enough for Gladio to see. He feels like he’s going to throw up at the limp figure bundled in the master swordsman’s arms, expertly going wide out of range while he keeps an eye on the oblivious daemons.

Cor looks far more pissed and intimidating than any opponent Gladio’s crossed despite it not being an unusual look for the man, but he can’t focus on the stern expression for the disheveled blond cloaked in the Immortal’s jacket. The leg injury is ugly, and he takes immediate responsibility for it and every wound he sees.

Gladio almost doesn’t recognize the scrawny thing _is_ Prompto the closer he looks.

“I don’t think I need to tell you what would have happened to him if I hadn’t found him, Gladiolus.” Cor warns, blue eyes a cold fury sharper than any blade. They cut through him as if he’s made of paper, weak and unable to protect anyone--not Noctis, and not even Prompto.

For however weak he feels, the gunner’s even worse when passed into open arms. He’s far too light, bony shoulder digging into his chest, the blond not putting up a sliver of resistance or stirring whatsoever. He’s so quiet, so stationary, that Gladio waits for Cor to inform him that he was too late the whole time, that this is a twisted lesson to be learned of abandonment.

But there’s a pulse, so faint but _there_ when he shifts his hold to feel for it. Cor watches him, expression unreadable before turning in the direction of Hammerhead with a mute order to follow.

Gladio cradles Prompto close like he’s the last precious thing left in this world of ruin.

* * *

The blond doesn’t wake up during the harrowing trip back to Hammerhead. 

Not at the burning brightness, a stark contrast from somber shadows, nor at Cindy ushering them over to the medic tent where Ignis has prepared for the worst.

Prompto’s as still and silent as the dead when Gladio settles him on the cot that Ignis is sure there’s something the Shield isn’t telling him. There’s no noise, no cheery banter, nothing to indicate that this is Prompto. He’s grown over the year--as expected--from what Ignis can feel as hands brush over scrapes new and old in assisting Gladio in undressing the blond. He shouldn’t be feeling _bone_.

They should have known better, those too few times they had texted in.

_Ignis should have known better._

Prompto finally cries out loud when Gladio gets to work cleaning the mess that’s his leg, delirious and moaning incoherently, not so still anymore as he struggles and nearly knocks the curatives out of Iggy’s hand.

“Easy, Prom, easy. It’s just us.”

The gunner goes placid once more, wobble in his voice that sounds so damn broken and unsure even when crystal blue orbs see it for himself. Ignis can make out their names within, reaching to grasp Prompto’s hand with a free one, lacing tremoring fingers together.

“It’s us.”


End file.
